


the only crime

by seventeencrows



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: is it funny haha or funny oh dear god please no why?, mention of alcohol abuse, the only thing HD about doug eiffel is his regret-o-vision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 18:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeencrows/pseuds/seventeencrows
Summary: there’s not much you’ll let get in the way of a good joke, is there?





	the only crime

**Author's Note:**

> me: i’m gonna not write second-person
> 
> also me: bitch please
> 
> title is from “all men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. the only crime is pride," from sophocles' _antigone_

you’re sixteen and she’s sixteen and the sun runs through her hair like your fingers do and it’s sweet and sappy and you’re in love like the greatest story you’ve ever told. it’s what you do, like fiddling with your radio and reaching for the stars; you show up on her doorstep like a knock-knock joke, slot her into your life just before the punchline and don’t notice the way your edges don’t quite line up alright. the best jokes are the ones you can tell over and over again and you’re just not that good yet, darling, can’t keep the crowd’s attention quite that long just yet. it’s so funny how it starts, the way you hang the barbs on your tongue right around when she starts filing her nails to points—in the end you’re not sure who started first, whose stone was the first one to sink instead of skip, but it’s always the punchline that people remember and yours tastes a hell of a lot like the bottom of a bottle of vodka, glass hard against your face like the tile of the bar bathroom, like the back of someone’s hand, like—

like the smack of a xylophone mallet on your knuckles, how she giggles when you grimace, howls with little-kid laughter as you clutch your arm and wail and peek at her from where you collapse on the floor. how she mumbles along to the star wars theme and uses a hand to hold her fingers apart for the vulcan salute, how she thinks every idea you have is a good one because you’ve _gotta_ open the door in every knock-knock joke, you at least taught her that much. you hung the moon in the sky for her, after all; she’s only supposed to lock the door on strangers and the bourbon’s wearing you like a second skin tonight, fingers like xylophone mallets when you buckle her in. the force is with you this time—it’s centripetal, spinning you across the tar in lazy circles of crunching steel and the taste of your own blood in your mouth (it’s yours, right? you were screaming and she was screaming and all you can taste is salt and you can’t be sure, can you?) and you roll to a stop at the hospital, at the courthouse where there’s nothing left for you to say, no way you’re digging your way out of this one. just another damn mistake in a long list, a stand-up act where only one guy claps; a guy who’s wearing a tailored suit and a couture smile and is here to make you a goddamn deal, doug.

_a soldier, a scientist, and a sack of shit walk into a space station_ but it’s a gag that doesn’t end, not even when the sky itself is fading fast behind you or when the leftover ice crystals on your knuckles after the cryo glitter like so much shattered windshield glass. there’s scars that look like constellations on the back of your hands now but you’re still scared you’ll cut yourself on the starch of her flight suit, the corners of the stupid fucking manual (god, talk about a joke). your mouth stumbles like your hands shake and you trip over her name enough times it makes the doctor roll his eyes and it’s an accident at first, you _swear—_

but then it doesn’t matter, does it, not when she hurts you first, not when she’s so much _better_ and _smarter_ and _greater_ than you—you want to guess where cutter got her from, who he had to beg, what he needed to offer the brilliant renee minkowski to step foot in his office. she _belongs_ here, really, truly; this is her home like it’s your jail cell, there is room for you only in the wake of how she fills every room with just how goddamn fucking capable she is. and it’s not that bad, it’s just a _name,_ a name you’re not supposed to call her even, really—she’s commanding officer, lieutenant, commander; she’s your boss, not your friend, and you’re her goddamn, never-ending problem. you see her flinch the first time and maybe the next and the one after that and then it gets a little easier, doesn’t it? forgetting? forgetting why it’s important, forgetting why it matters, forgetting why it’s so rude, _ferdinand,_ when people do a number on your name? it’s an easy button to push, an easy wound exposed and ready for you to dig your nails right in and after a while, well, it’s just plain old easy.

and fuck, it’s just a joke, right? minkowski’s got skin tougher than nails, than diamonds or steel or carbon fiber or the very hull of your flying tin can, tougher even than your wind-up girl, isn’t she? they’re so alike it’s a wonder one bleeds copper and the other one iron—they’re so stiff and so mean and they just _can’t take a goddamn joke—_ the stutter when you ask hal to open the podbay doors, when the speakers crackle off during a system update and you ask the terminator if _she’ll be back?_ it’s not your fault she doesn’t laugh, doesn’t think you’re funny; the tin man never did have a heart, after all—   

takes a certain kind of person to get your sense of humour, doesn’t it? someone made of the same stuff, wouldn’t you say, right down to the marrow so that deep down you’ll even bleed the same. she’s so uncanny that doesn’t it scare you, doesn’t it just _freak you out,_ are you just a little bit jealous—she’s got the weak stripped right out of her, made that much better in the nuclear heart of a monster star and if she jumps at her own reflection like it’s a stranger making their home in her skull (peek through a pupil and see all the lights they’ve left on, she’s not crying they’ve just let the water run too long, so inconsiderate) what hope is there for you? you’re just talking about priorities here, you’re just trying to get to the punchline—i mean, the _point—_ before ET phones home again. you’re just trying to communicate, trying to _send the message—_ not much you can do about it, can you, scared as you are? you’re just doing your job, right, and ain't it _funny,_ ain't it the _best_ joke, how good you are at hurting the people you love? at wrecking your family all over again? the back of lovelace's hand across the side of your face sounds a lot like the snap of an airbag unfurling; you bite the inside of your cheek just like the first time and realize your good ideas still taste like salt.

you’re thirty-two (thirty-three? four? does it matter, up here?) and then you’re half that again and her name is kate—no, it’s minkowski— _no,_ it’s min _-kov-_ ski—no, actually, his name is morgan (he’s a captain too, and you’re just as scared of him as you are the other one, these days) and he’s got quite the smile, staring up at you from that bottle like he can make it stop. but that’s your damage, isn’t it, officer eiffel? that’s your problem, after all, what they’ve been telling you all this time—you’re a good guy, you like a good joke, like it when people smile when you tell them and you try, you _really, really try_ , but then? but then it gets scary, then it gets sad and you get tired and it gets _easy,_ sweet and simple and warm like the taste of rum against the back of your teeth and then—

“and then—you stop trying.”   

**Author's Note:**

> someone please manifest physically in my home and beat me with something very heavy until i stop writing this shit


End file.
